


Precipice

by FenHarelMaGhilana (WhitethornWolf)



Series: Fortune Favour Me [7]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 20:02:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhitethornWolf/pseuds/FenHarelMaGhilana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Alistair makes a decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Precipice

Zevran's smirk mirrored the amusement in his eyes as he leaned back on his chair and drained the rest of his mug.  
"My dear,” he said around a mouthful of brandy, “if this is you sober, I would be worried for the state of your country."

Eilin dragged one hand over her face, and laughter bubbled out from between her fingers. "I am sober!"

Swaying, she grabbed Alistair's shoulder for support, causing him to tilt dangerously on his seat. The two of them broke into giggles.

"By the Maker," Wynne muttered, peering in disapproval at them over the rim of her mug.

Leliana laughed and shrugged, draining her mug in one swig. "This is nice, non? Having a roof over our heads, even if it is for just one night."

Alistair had to agree. The inn was pretty crowded and he could hardly hear over the din of mugs clinking and people talking, but it was better than being camped in the freezing rain outside the city. Plus, the ale was doing the trick. The room was tilting and he felt pleasantly heavy-limbed, Eilin's head was on his shoulder and the heat of her skin warmed him. Then her head promptly slid down his arm and hit the table with a thump, and Zevran let out a great bark of laughter.

"What did I tell you?"

"I'm not drunk," came the muffled response, and she lifted her head and swept her hair off her face. A giggle escaped her, then another. She retrieved her mug and scowled into it.  
"Why is my drink gone?"

"You spilled it ten minutes ago," Wynne replied, and plucked the empty mug out of her hand. Eilin glared at her like an indignant puppy.

"You can have some of mine," Alistair offered, and Eilin smiled at him and touched his cheek, an expression that would have been sweeter if her eyes had been slightly more focused.

"See, this is why I like you."

Normally he would have had something to say in response, but his tongue tripped over his words, so he simply slid his tankard over. Eilin drained it in one gulp and leaned against him again, closing her eyes.

"I want another one," she mumbled.

Zevran lifted an eyebrow in amusement and let the legs of his chair fall back to the floor.  
"Should I --"

"No." Wynne placed her mug on the table. "No more. Take her upstairs, Alistair, and go to bed."

"Oh, dear Wynne. You spoil my fun."

"I shudder to think what your idea of fun is, Zevran." The mage lifted a stern eyebrow. "Upstairs, Alistair."

"Alright, alright." Alistair lurched to his feet and pulled Eilin upright - rougher than he'd intended, to his dismay. She stumbled and nearly fell, clutching his shirt and breaking into giggles.

"Where are we going?" she laughed as he steered her unsteadily towards the stairs, ignoring the tittering of the other patrons.

"Upstairs. Wynne said..." Alistair paused. Wynne had said something, hadn't she? She'd wanted him to take Eilin somewhere and...he didn’t remember. "Wynne said we had to go upstairs."

"Why?" Eilin said petulantly, stumbling on the first step. "I want more mead."

"I think she said...we had to ...sleep together."

She paused on the stair above him and gave him such an odd look that he frowned. Sleeping was good, wasn’t it? Maybe it was the way he’d said it? His tongue didn’t seem to be working too well. Or his brain, for that matter. But then she smiled at him and took his hand, and whatever coherent thoughts he had quickly fled.

She reached the top of the stairs first and pulled him up after her, giggling as he stumbled and grabbed onto her for support. They fell against the wall and her lips were on his before he knew what was happening. She tasted like mead -- unsurprising, given how much she’d drank -- and she pulled herself against him until he was practically squashing her into the wall.

"Oi!"

They broke apart, and Alistair looked over his shoulder to find a woman in a tattered dress glaring at him.

"You can't do that in the corridors!" she snapped, and pointed down the hall. "Them's rooms for a reason!"

Vaguely he wondered what the others would think, as EIlin pulled him down the hall. But it was Wynne who'd told him to...to take her upstairs and...then what? Go to bed? She hadn’t said that...had she? He hoped not. He was a grown man, damn it, and he could decide his own bedtime.

Alistair shot a glance at Eilin, who was wavering rather dangerously on her feet, and tried to remember what Wynne had actually said. Something about upstairs, and Eilin, and no more...no more ale? Where was the fun in that?

Eilin was singing as she stumbled to the door of her room; some ballad about a young maiden or a sad cat, he couldn't tell through the fog descending on his brain.

Wynne was very good at setting things on fire, Alistair thought, pausing on the threshold.

Maybe it was better to stay up here for the moment.

Some instinct or sense of propriety made him hesitate, hovering uncertainly until Eilin beckoned him inside and collapsed on the bed with a happy sigh.

Somehow he summoned the presence of mind to shut the door -- quietly, even -- but his train of thought fled when he saw her unrolling the sleeves on her tunic.

"What--" his voice caught in his throat; licking his lips, he tried again. "What are you doing?"

She pulled her tunic off and began to unpin her hair, and the light from the fire made the outline of her body glow through her thin under-tunic. He swallowed hard.

"You can sit down," she said, combing her fingers through her hair. “Go on.”

Awkwardly he sat and began to remove his boots, sure that his face was red enough to light up the room even without the fire going. He couldn't stop his thoughts from jumping ahead, his eyes firmly fixed on the buckles on his boots, and definitely not at her. And definitely not thinking of warm skin and clever hands and lips and tongue and - _no, Alistair, stop it. This is not helping._  
She touched his shoulder and he jerked in surprise, so hard she pulled back with a startled giggle.

"It's just me."

 _Damn it._ His blush was bright enough to burn his cheeks now, and she was so close he could see the freckles on her nose.

“Leliana was right,” she whispered. “Don’t you think?”

“About what?”

“About having a roof over our heads.” Smiling, she laced her hands around his neck. “It’s good to have some privacy. Just for one night.”

“Yes, privacy. For...what, though?”

Again with the odd look. He had a feeling he was missing something, or there was some conclusion he was meant to draw from all this. That happened a lot.  
“How much did you actually have to drink?” Eilin asked. She relaxed her grip around his neck, one hand idly toying with the collar of his shirt.

Alistair shrugged. “Erm...I don’t know. Two pints? Three pints? Minus the one you pinched.”

"Excuse you. I seem to remember you offering me the rest of your drink.” She grinned. “And besides, you didn't need any more."

Alistair gave a short, disbelieving laugh. "You're kidding, right? And who was practically falling over on the stairs?”

“I didn’t hear you protesting overly.”

“It was drowned out by your singing. What was that, anyway? It sounded like --” he stopped himself in time, remembering that most people didn’t like their singing compared to an over-excited mabari. “Uh, I mean...I didn’t recognise the language.”

“It was Antivan.” She was smiling genuinely now, her face open and relaxed. “My brother’s wife used to sing it, and she taught me.”

“Tell me about her,” Alistair said.

Eilin chewed her lip for a few moments, deep in thought.

“She came from Salle,” she said eventually, “near Rialto Bay. She said that’s why she liked Highever, because it’s on the coast like her city. I think she mentioned once that the air smelled the same.”

“And...did it?”

“I don’t know,” she laughed. “I’ve never been to Antiva. Oriana was sweet, and good, and she...loved Fergus and Oren a lot.”

The last words she said in a low voice, and he kissed away the frown forming on her brow. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought them up.”

“There’s no need to be sorry.” Her hands returned to his neck, fingernails gently scraping the hair at the base of his skull. “I miss my family a lot, as I’m sure you miss Duncan. But it’s not so bad. They’re gone, but...I still have you.”

She was still smiling at him, gently and a little crooked, so beautiful he couldn’t stop himself from reaching for her. Winding his hands in her hair, he kissed her hard, and the hands around his neck tightened as she pulled herself into the kiss. He didn’t know quite what he was doing, only that her tongue was in his mouth and suddenly she was sitting on him instead of beside him, and he hadn’t expected that. He scooted back on the bed rather ungracefully and she followed, landing sprawled on his chest with a thump that drove the wind from his lungs.

“Maker’s breath,” he wheezed as she began to giggle. “What--what’s so funny?”

Eilin leaned over him, the tendrils of her hair tickling his face, and kissed his nose. “We are. You are. Did I ever tell you how much I like you?”

“Well, we wouldn’t be doing this if you didn’t...would we?” His head was spinning, and it took him a few moments to realise he was clutching her thighs rather tightly. Some vague part of his mind noticed how much softer and warmer she seemed; though as most of their encounters consisted of sneaking into the forest at night for a few kisses, that was hardly surprising.

“No,” she murmured, and slid forward in _just_ the right place, and he twitched reflexively. She bent closer and kissed him on the mouth. “We wouldn’t.”

Frantically he searched for something to say; a joke, or something to distract her -- but all coherent thought seemed to have fled. Not that it was all that reliable in the first place.  
Her hands were on his chest, pulling at the laces on his shirt before common sense returned to him in a sudden stab of panic. He grabbed her fingers. “Wait!”

She paused with a confused look made comical by her hair falling into her eyes. “Are you alright?”

“It’s just...um...what are we doing?”

“Do I have to spell it out?” she laughed and bent closer. “Or would you prefer I...improvise?”

“That is so not what I meant.” It was difficult to think with his senses straining at every brush of her body against his, and it wasn't as if that damned tunic left much to the imagination. When she shifted on top of him he closed his eyes and willed his sanity and presence of mind to hold on.

Eilin grinned and moved her hips and he bit back a gasp, and some part of his mind wondered if she’d always been this wicked and he’d simply failed to notice until--

“Wasn’t it?” she murmured, grinning widely. “The rest of you seems eager enough.”

“Yes, alright,” Alistair replied -- Maker, even _he_ didn’t know he could blush this much. “But do we really have to do this? Right now? I mean...we’ve only just...”

Her face fell; she pulled back and the hurt in her expression made him want to cringe.  
“I don’t understand,” she said haltingly. “I thought that we --I--you said--”

“I -- I know Wynne told me to --” Alistair groaned and let go of her, fisting his hands in his hair. “Just let me explain, alright? I know most men would probably leap at this chance, but...” And there’s the blushing again. “I don’t know if I’m ready for it...for that. I was raised not to take this sort of thing lightly.”

“I see.” Her mouth turned down at the corners, and steel laced her tone -- an odd contrast to her flushed cheeks. “And you think I was?”

Alistair groaned. “No, that’s not at all what I meant.” Gently he pulled her hand away from his shirt. “I must sound like such a fool to you, but...this isn’t the time or place for it. We’re in an inn and the others will be upstairs soon, and we’re both far too drunk for this.” She was blushing now, trying to tug her hand out of his grip, but he held on doggedly. “It’s not that I don’t want to. That must be...erm, pretty obvious. But just not...now.” He paused, trying to keep a grip on his resolve. “I hope that hasn’t put you off.”

Shoulders slumping, she regarded him with a defeated expression, and in a moment of apprehension he thought he’d really, truly offended her. Then she leaned her head against his shoulder. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

He exhaled slowly, forcing his heartbeat to slow, and combed his fingers through her hair. The muscles of her neck were tense and knotted and he pressed down, rubbing gently.

“You keep doing that,” she muttered, “and I won’t take no for an answer.” Sighing, she lifted her head, and the weariness in her expression made him feel guilty all of a sudden.

Maker knew he’d left most of the leading and decision-making to her so far -- more often than he should, in fact. Funny how this was the first real decision he’d made, or at least the one that impacted him the most. Maybe he really was just insane to stop her...but she’d had so much to drink, and she wasn’t herself. What kind of man would he be to take advantage of that?

He pulled her closer with one hand on the small of her back, and with the other he shifted her so she was lying on the bed. She was rapidly dozing off, fingers clutched around a handful of his shirt and eyelids fluttering.

“Stay with me,” she muttered as he sat back on his haunches. “Don’t go, Alistair.”

“I--” he cast a quick glance at the door, but he heard only silence from the hall. “I’m not sure that’s --”

“I don’t care what the others think.” She rose up on her elbows, blinking sleepily, still frowning. “I don’t care about what’s proper.”

He rolled his eyes. “If that’s not a recipe for disaster, I don’t know what is.” But he lay down on his side, pulling one of the rough blankets up around them both, and she curled into him. Within a few minutes her breathing began to slow. She was still holding onto his shirt, fingers slack, head resting in the crook of his shoulder.

Alistair let his muscles loosen and cast his eyes up to the ceiling, sighing heavily, and wondered just how this girl had managed to get the better of him.


End file.
